Trial By Fire
by Calico45
Summary: Alfred Jones unexpectedly gets a new job, not that he needed one, through a mutual acquaintance of his brother's that challenges everything he has ever learned about cooking, baking, or the laws of physics. How is a freelance web designer supposed to teach a man with the inedible touch to cook anyway? He will never be able to look at food the same way again.
1. Prologue

Trial By Fire

Prologue

How did Alfred even end up in this situation? He could not quite remember himself, but he knew it had to do with Matthew and one of Matthew's friends. Oh yes, Matthew. It was coming back to him now. This was all Matthew's fault. Alfred had not the slightest clue why, but his older brother always had a bit of a complex about their sibling relationship. Alfred was the younger brother and Matthew was the older brother, and they were to behave as such. Only, that never actually happened. Alfred had always been the loud and outspoken one of the two, quite a contrast to the quiet and timid Matthew. As such, it was always Alfred that defended Matthew from all the bullies and made sure he had a voice in things. As luck would have it, even if Matthew was arguably the more mature one or even the saner one, that charisma had always allowed Alfred to look after his brother in a way the older never could. That, and the vocal observations of friends and strangers alike assuming Alfred to be the older twin, gave Matthew his complex. Now if only Alfred could understand why it bothered his brother so much, though that would be a big breakthrough in Matthew's therapy as well. Patience, patience, he supposed.

Regardless, because of that complex Matthew felt that he had to get Alfred a job. The only problem was that he already had one. A freaking good one as a freelance web designer. Good pay, flexible hours more often than not right in the comfort of his own home, and a growing portfolio that beat out professionals in the field when he was just fresh out of college. However, Alfred had always had a weakness when it came to Matthew, especially when tears were involved. Which only served to aid the complex, on another note. This had been one of those occasions, so Alfred accepted. How bad could it be, after all? It was a favor from one of Matthew's friends and Alfred could continue his other job in his downtime. Problem solved. That was until Matthew asked one question, right in the middle of his cheer, that made Alfred a little nervous.

"Can you cook?"

Yes, he could cook. Anyone could in his opinion. Most recipes not only came with a list of ingredients but a step by step instruction list. How hard was it to follow directions? That said, it still bothered him that Matthew would ask that. If anyone would know whether he could cook or not it should have been Matthew, since they had lived together for a good eighteen years growing up sharing kitchen duty. Even now Alfred would be in big trouble if he could not cook being the bachelor he was. Now that he was out of school he had to provide for himself in more ways than one. Could he cook? Of course. Could he do the job that Matthew found for him? Well, he was not so sure anymore.

His anxiety had only been heightened as Matthew spewed the facts of his new occupation bit by bit. His brother had been quite stingy with the details even then when he had not given Alfred so much as a hint without his acceptance. The friend that was getting Alfred the job was a Frenchman by the name of Francis Bonnefey. He knew the man, admittedly, but not nearly as well as Matthew. The two had even been roommates in college for a while, to Alfred's knowledge, and they got along quite well. Part of that had to do with Matthew's second language being French. Sure, Alfred knew French, too. It was a little hard not to when fifty percent of what his older brother said was in the language, but he had always found that life was easier when everyone thought he could only speak English. Just for the record, he had taken Spanish classes as to not give any reason for Matthew to feed his complex, but no one could seem to remember that he was fluent in that as well. Anyway, Francis Bonnefey was not a bad man by any account, but Alfred knew better than to let his guard down around him. He was actually surprised that Matthew's friendship with Francis survived all the Frenchman's inappropriate and self-centered behavior, even with all the man's good points. One such good point had always been his cooking. It was so good that both he and Matthew had told Francis to go to culinary school, though only jokingly. Alfred started to connect the dots before Matthew could even say it: Francis _had _gone to culinary school. Not only that, as it turned out, but he had started his own business as well. Alfred did not like where this was going at all.

"He is going to hire _me_, an untrained web designer of all things, as a _chef_?" Alfred cried, "Because I am not going to be the dishwasher!"

Matthew shook his head desperately at the accusation, "Of course not, Al. I would not do that to you. He really is going to hire you to cook."

"There had to be a catch. Why would a professional catering company, gaining in popularity and with dreams of opening some sort of restaurant or shop, take a step back and hire someone without training on blind faith?" Alfred insisted, "No matter how good of friends you and Francis are, business is business. There is absolutely no way."

"Oh but there is." Matthew chuckled nervously, "But I guess you were kind of right about the catch. Francis will explain in all tomorrow, though. At least go see him!"

The last thing that Alfred wanted to do was find out what type of underhanded agreement he was apparently a part of now and all it entailed, simply because it "was the best thing for him," but that weakness was alive and well. Matthew proved that once more with ease. So he would go. He would go and at least listen to Francis's proposition. He was not agreeing to any more than that and from there at least he would not budge for any amount of tears. Even if Matthew meant well, he could be incredibly manipulative whether or not he meant to. Most people could never see that behind the man's innocent face, but Alfred knew Matthew better than Matthew knew himself sometimes. He had every reason to be suspicious of this deal with Francis.

That suspicion was promptly proven when he attended the meeting. The catch that Alfred had been expecting turned out to have a name: Arthur Kirkland. Apparently he was Francis's business partner despite them fighting like cats and dogs. It had been a partnership out of necessity from what Alfred could piece together. Francis had the skills with people and cuisine and Arthur had business knowhow and capital. He had been essential when the business had first started, and he still was, but to a lesser degree now that they made money. However, Arthur was not satisfied with that. He genuinely loved cooking and that was the only reason he became Francis's partner in the first place. Arthur had wanted to join everyone in the kitchen from the start. The only thing is that simply was not possible, at least not with his _talent_. Said talent was apparently to turn everything edible to inedible with no more than a mere touch. Alfred had thought Francis was joking when he first heard the words, but his face was the most serious Alfred had ever seen it. What was more is that in recent events Arthur had put himself in the hospital eating his own creations. The one person who had ever had immunity to its toxicity had always been Arthur himself, so this was a whole new step on the inedibility chart. Nevertheless, the man still wanted to not only cook for himself, but for the business as well. And that was where Alfred came in. Alfred was to be Arthur's personal chef and tutor, though namely chef. Francis still needed Arthur very much alive and well, but cooking for someone other than their customers. So Alfred would "teach" him to cook, merely to channel that creativity and frustration away from the business. That and make sure that he would not actually kill himself by eating his own food. It sounded simple enough and Francis seemed pretty desperate, but Alfred could not shake the nagging feeling that this would be far more than he bargained for.

That nagging feeling never went away. Not from the moment that he left that meeting with Francis to when Matthew reminded him why he had even gone to the meeting place in the first place. In fact, if anything it grew stronger until it finally hit a peak: when Alfred was standing right outside his door. Francis had assured him that everything would be fine and that he had called and informed Arthur of the situation. Still, Alfred could not even make himself knock. How did he end up in this situation again? Oh yes, Matthew. Well he had officially made a full mental loop. There was nothing more that he could do now other than knock. Little did Alfred know that the decision to knock on the door that day would change his life forever. As for better or for worse, well even he could not decide that.


	2. Chapter 1

Trial By Fire

Chapter 1, The Inedible Touch

Awkward. That was the only word that could describe the atmosphere in Arthur's home. All the two could do was sit apart, trying not to stare at each other, on different sides of what must have been the living room. Alfred had not even been able to introduce himself yet due to being ushered inside. What a way to start out with his new employer Alfred supposed. Even if it was Francis signing his paychecks, Arthur was still the man he had to listen to and work with. This kind of environment was not conducive for much of anything positive between the two. What exactly had Francis told him over the phone anyway? Alfred could not really tell by the way Arthur had been acting. He seemed shy and polite enough since he could not even hold eye contact long enough for Alfred to register more than his emerald eye color. That was odd, too, for that matter. Once he had finally accepted the position after Matthew's fit both he and Francis had warned him of this man's violent and volatile behavior. That was quite literally all they told him beside the cooking issue. Alfred had to decide on the fly that the man was English from Arthur's first and only statement telling him to sit down. Throw in that the man was blond, wore a green sweater vest with khaki pants, and lived in a home that was as much of an antique as all his aged possessions and that was all he knew of this Arthur Kirkland. What now?

"W-would you like some tea?"

The second accent laden statement confirmed Alfred's snap judgment about the man's origins.

"No thank you, Mr. Kirkland. We should really get on with business." Alfred insisted, jumping at the chance to move this along and protect himself from whatever it was that had Francis frightened enough to hire him in the first place, "My name is Alfred Jones, but Alfred is just fine. Francis is an old friend of mine and my brother's. I am sure he told you over the phone all about me?"

Alfred could not help the confident smile that busted onto his face. Lip service and charisma were his talents. Of course he hated the formality of his own speech and kept merely superficial ties with people that were more concerned with their egotistical imaginings than reality, but business was business even if he would be doing his real job when he got home later that night. Besides, his talents would not mean a thing if he did not use them from time to time. He even managed to set up the situation to learn exactly what all Francis had told Arthur in the first place. Forget a silver tongue, his was golden.

"Yes, he has—And you can call me Arthur." he responded, finally holding some eye contact, "It seems you are to be my chef and teacher."

The Englishman hesitated here, breaking eye contact once more.

"I hate to be so rude since you already came all the way out here, Francis did not give me so much as your number so I could prevent this, but I will not be needing your services. I am truly sorry for the trouble and I am sure we can work out something for you to stay with the company or to help you until you find a new job."

Ah, so that was why he had been acting so meek. Alfred had figured something like this would happen, just from the descriptions given to him. Francis did not have to explicitly say it. Of course someone that put him or herself in the hospital eating his or her own meals and still wanted to cook for other people had some serious issues with denial. Luckily for Arthur, so did Alfred. If someone could follow direction then that someone could cook. As far as Alfred was concerned, it was not scientifically possible for that not to be true. So maybe Arthur did not need his services after all. Francis, or any other chef from the company for that matter, could teach him just as well if not better than Alfred if he knew what the problem was. Surely their fighting had just gotten in the way before and it allowed Arthur to stay in this kind of state. Well, Alfred could fix that much, and it might even get him off the hook with his brother so he could go back to being a normal web designer. Everybody won.

"Really, because Francis was so adamant about it…" Alfred asked thoughtfully, taking a moment to pause before speaking again, "Though I suppose he could have made a mistake. Anyone could, after all, and with all the stress of running a growing business, no less."

Alfred watched the relief rush to Arthur's face, "But of course. I am so glad you understand. I assure you that we will do everything possible not to inconvenience you over our mistake."

Hook.

"My only problem is that he is not willingly going to admit that." Alfred continued, "I mean you know Francis as well if not better than I do. You have to, to be his business partner, and I might end up continuing to work for your company, right? That means this is still my first day and the last thing I want to do is look bad in front of my new employers. Do you think that we could at least give today a try? If nothing else, it will showcase my skills."

Arthur seemed rather torn for a moment as he debated it, "I suppose you are right. That frog would not make anything easy on you or me for that matter."

Line.

"I suppose it would not hurt. You are already here." Arthur concluded, rising to head for the kitchen but having his hand caught in a firm handshake instead.

"Thank you so much, Arthur!" Alfred cheered, catching what might very well have been a blush on Arthur's face.

And sinker.

"So, what do you want to make today?" Alfred questioned as he followed Arthur dutifully into the kitchen.

Thankfully, it seemed far more modern than the rest of the house though it did still have touches of the past here and there. It was even quite spacious and practically sparkled. If Alfred did not know any better he would say that this kitchen had never been used. Though he did know better, especially as his eyes landed on a fire extinguisher. Plus smoke detectors. Smoke detectors were always good.

"I was thinking that maybe we should have that tea and maybe a spot of scones?" Arthur answered, looking in Alfred's direction to gauge his reaction.

Alfred merely smiled. He could handle scones. He loved sweets anyway, even if scones tended not to be all that sweet they were at least supposed to be since they were in the pastry family. He could even handle tea when coffee was his favorite. Alfred really was not all that picky, just ask anybody. Some people even thought he did not have a sense of taste considering all the things he could eat, for both their amount and variety. First and foremost, these people were completely wrong. Second, if something was known to be edible then he was certainly not the only person to eat it. Third, everyone's metabolism was different. Fourth, why did it even matter?

"Why not?" Alfred chuckled, quickly scanning the room for obvious ingredients, "What kind of recipe are you going to use or do you want one of mine?"

"You have a scone recipe?" Arthur cried in utter disbelief.

"Well, yeah. Nothing fancy though. It is not like I have not made them before." Alfred murmured with a bit of a shrug, "Besides, I was hired as _your_ _teacher_, remember? I have to know a thing or two."

Of course he had a scone recipe—anyone that could use Google did. But he really had made them before, and it was probably the best idea to keep their first recipe together relatively simple. Besides, it was not like Francis's expectations were very high. A very basic, edible scone more than blew them out of the water. An edible anything did.

"Fine." Arthur huffed, gesturing to his entire kitchen, "I had been planning on using my grandmother's recipe, but we will use yours then, _Mr. Jones_. Help yourself."

A cocky grin broke across Alfred's face, "Arthur, how big is your appetite?"

He stalled at this, not exactly sure how he should answer, "Decent, I suppose?"

"Good!"

Arthur was not exactly sure what he was expecting when he answered, but being ignored was not on the list. This was his kitchen, yet Alfred was buzzing around it like a little worker bee locating ingredients and equipment alike. Before he could even tell what was going on Alfred had all his ingredients out and was measuring: sugar, coarse sugar, baking powder, bread flour, salt, cold heavy cream, milk, and a lot of it.

"Alfred?" Arthur ventured, still watching the show as Alfred finished up his measurements and started fishing out pans and other equipment.

"Hm?"

"Just how many scones are you making?"

Arthur did not get the immediate response he was hoping for. Instead he could have sworn he heard a bit of a chuckle as his teacher continued to pull out pan after pan.

"_We_ are making five dozen basic cream scones." Alfred clarified with a wild twinkle in his eyes as he continued through his tasks, "First I am going to mix all five pounds and ten ounces of flour, one pound five ounces of sugar, five and one fourth ounces of baking powder, and the two and one fourth ounces of salt for about five minutes in your electric mixer at a medium speed before I add the cream. In that time how about you preheat the oven to about three hundred and fifty degrees? Fahrenheit just so we are on the same page."

Okay, Arthur was suddenly starting to understand why Alfred had been chosen to be his teacher, if for no other reason than because he could give out clear and concise orders. Even if it was a little stunning, he had agreed to play student today. He could do that. Besides, even if they had the same weight as commands Alfred was still asking him to do things. He was not simply being ordered around in his own kitchen, they were just cooking together. As he turned the knob on his oven to set the temperature it occurred to him that this would not have actually been such a bad arrangement. Then he remembered that if this was so fun then the possibilities for when he started cooking with the other employed chefs were endless. If he did his job right he would still be cooking with Alfred as well. He could not wait.

When he finally refocused on Alfred he was adding in the four pounds and ten ounces of cream into the mixer, "What next?"

"It would be great if you could go ahead and put the parchment paper on the sheet pans."

Arthur snorted, though did as he was told, "Will I actually be touching something edible anytime soon?"

"In due time." Alfred assured, the wild twinkle back, "Feel free to write my recipe down. I am telling you all the details for a reason."

Alfred heard something that sounded rather reminiscent of a "hmpth" followed by the sound of crinkling parchment paper. Well, he had learned one major thing so far: Arthur could follow directions. That and he truly loved to cook. Alfred had not had a bit of trouble getting all the things together for his recipe, in bulk no less, when neither of them had prepared in advance. There was no way Arthur could have; he had planned on sending him away after all. Alfred had even kept Arthur's involvement minimal at first just to check these things. As for what that all meant about Arthur's problem, he was not so sure. He had to be doing _something _wrong for Alfred to be hired in the first place, but finding out what that something happened to be was turning out harder than he had expected. Arthur clearly knew what ingredients to keep and how to work with his own tools. He even kept everything on hand for spur of the moment kinds of things like this. If he had the knowledge, tools, and motivation just what was the problem?

"I guess you want to help me weigh the dough then?" Alfred teased, removing the now dough from the mixer, "Remember, two pounds five ounces each. There should be six of these patted into each of their own circular cake pans. I pulled out all the ones that have a ten inch diameter, but did not spray them with the nonstick spray. We have to freeze these circles on those sheets from earlier after they take shape, anyway."

He could tell an immediate difference in his "student's" posture. Well that perked him up. Alfred guessed that was because he was not allowed to do many of these things, much less encouraged. That made him feel a little glad that he took the job. Even if it had been just to please Matthew, he ended up making someone pretty happy. It turned out that Francis was just dramatic, as usual. After all, these scones could not be messed up at this point, not when they just had to bake. Alfred certainly was not going to let them burn whether Arthur was in the equation or not. Why was he even hired in the first place—

Purple. The dough was purple.

"A-Arthur?" Alfred began tentatively, staring down into the one cake pan that had purple dough, "Are you messing with me by playing with food dye or something?"

"I most certainly am not!" Arthur hissed, moving to see exactly what Alfred was looking at with another heap of untainted dough in his hands.

Alfred blinked, staring at Arthur's one pan and comparing it to his three. Only Arthur's was purple, so clearly it was not the mix or something Alfred had done. Maybe he put something on the scale or his hands—his hands. Alfred's eyes widened at the sight as the dough in Arthur's hands slowly became devoured by a purple hue. It looked like it had been left to mold, only fast forwarded. He could even see the tips of Arthur's fingers without a trace of discoloration. However, the one thing that disturbed Alfred the most is that Arthur was not nearly as freaked as he was. Was this even remotely possible of being n-normal?

"What is wrong with it?" Arthur probed, looking at his pan and not realizing that Alfred's eyes were firmly on the dough in his hands.

Apparently so.

"Arthur. It's purple. _Purple_."

Arthur gave him a look that doubted his sanity, "Yes it is."

"Most things are not _purple_, Arthur!" Alfred tried to explain while keeping his temper in check.

It was purple for goodness' sake!

That seemed to reach Arthur a bit, "Well they do turn out black quite a bit. It might be the cream."

"B-black? As in _black dough_?"

"What else?"

Alfred could honestly say he had never made anything with black dough in his life, not even with food coloring. He had barely seen black icing even and this man thought it was normal to have black dough? Did he own a cookbook with pictures? Did they even make them without pictures anymore? Had he ever even seen an _actual_ scone!? Alfred was thinking that the answer to all of these questions was a firm "no," or at least he was really hoping. He was starting to understand why Francis had been so serious. Alfred really had to do something about that weakness when it came to Matthew.

"White or cream colored dough, kind of like mine in my three pans—Soon to be four." Alfred suggested, swiftly grabbing the last heap of dough before Arthur could touch it.

"They do look a tad different." Arthur admitted, putting his own purple heap into the last spare pan, "But they should be fine once they bake."

Alfred seriously doubted that, but without any kind of reasonable explanation he could not make himself call off the experiment just yet. Oh great, this had already turned from cooking into a science experiment. That aside, he would at least keep his four separated from Arthur's two in both the fridge and the oven to give them all a fair shot. He even separated the milk and the coarse sugar out that they would be coated in before baking to minimize the possibilities of contamination. Naturally when they were frozen only Alfred was allowed to touch his own and Arthur his as they cut the circles into ten wedges each. Alfred's sheet pans were in the oven first for their twenty to twenty five minute span and as far as he was concerned only forty scones were going to come out of that kitchen today. Nevertheless he remained kind and polite the entire waiting time, not mentioning Arthur's disturbingly purple dough once as his scones baked. Before Alfred could even set his scones down Arthur's "scones" were in the oven and baking. He had gotten one look at them and it seemed like they dissolved the milk and sugar they had been coated in seconds earlier. Alfred had a harder time not mentioning that as they waited.

Alfred never hated to be right so much as when Arthur pulled his "scones" out of the oven and there was purple smog around them. He was really glad he had baked his first because that smog should not have existed, and more disturbingly it clung to the oven with a mix of black smoke rather than the "scones." What was around the "scones" Alfred could best describe as a palpable aura. He did not doubt one bit that if he took a bite it would have the added texture of the aura with it. Even without the added aura he could tell that these "scones," now with a thick shield of charcoal black around it, could kill an ordinary man just from the sight of them alone. It was especially apparent when his cooled sheet pans were right next to the newly cooling ones. Alfred had never believed in the supernatural, he was a man of science and always had been, but that was the only thing that could explain Arthur and whatever it was that caused these scones to turn into "scones." He had the inedible touch.

"Let's eat, shall we?" Arthur asked, immediately going for one of his own "scones."

Only he was not fast enough, at least not before Alfred grabbed it. As he expected, he could actually feel the aura in his hands, yet that still did not stop him from taking the bite that could kill an ordinary man. Thankfully, he was not an ordinary man, and if he did not know it already the utter shock painted all over Arthur's face would have told him. On another note, under all the black the "scone" was a bright purple.

"Arthur, I am afraid to say that it seems Francis did not make a mistake after all. My diagnosis is 'the inedible touch.'" Alfred illuminated, grabbing up the sheet pans with the "scones" and dumping them into the trash, "So it seems our time together will not be coming to an end just yet. I am afraid I will have to decline that tea for fear of what it will become, but we will work through this. In the meantime, eat those forty actual scones and stay out of the kitchen. Great meeting you."

And he was gone, "scone" in hand.


	3. Chapter 2

Trial By Fire

Chapter 2, Artie

Just what had Alfred agreed to? He had never planned on getting involved in something that could, and would, kill him. It was like studying abroad in Russia all over again. He had not expected nearly what he had gone through then, but at least he had survived. Now he was facing yet another situation with his life at stake. Why did death love him so much anyway? Could it really not wait until his time was up? He was beginning to think that he was meant to be a high stakes gambler instead of a web designer, forever living on the edge. Being a chef was nowhere even near consideration, and yet that was how he would be spending his days apparently. He had not even been fired for his little exit stunt. In fact, it apparently convinced Francis that he had been the absolute best choice for the job when he had finally recovered from his laughing fit. Even Matthew had thought his first day had gone rather well considering. It almost made Alfred force feed them the "scone" that he had taken away from Arthur's house. That had been his original intention anyway and Francis had still been in danger when Alfred decided that he would not have had the heart to kill his own brother. In the end, he had decided to keep it as a trophy of sorts. If nothing else, he could observe how it decayed, if it even did. How would he know? He did not know anything about magic, if it even existed. He had been leaning more to the side that Arthur was an alien, or at least an alien experiment, now that he had calmed down. Now that is science for you.

Speaking of Arthur, even if Francis was plenty pleased there was no doubt in Alfred's mind that he wanted him fired. After all, he had thrown away the prideful man's "scones" right in front of him and told him to eat his real ones instead. Arthur was bound to be used to a variety of insults and other responses, but this may have very well been near the top of the scale. Alfred had always been known to be quite blunt when he wanted to be and that did not always carry over very well, especially to those that were used to his golden tongue. Now if only those same people stuck around for a tongue lashing, then they would they have felt the full power of his linguistic spectrum. Of course, there was a reason that they did not, and he feared that Arthur should have been among them. Needless to say, he was not looking forward to going back. In spite of that, it was more because of Arthur's unpredictability rather than anything else. That had been the one thing ingrained into his head by Francis and Matthew, after all. He himself had even expected that the food itself would have driven him away if it was as bad as Francis had said. His conclusion: Francis had a wimpy stomach and nothing ingestible could kill him after his stint in Russia.

As strange as it was, Alfred had not even gotten mildly sick. Sure, he could feel it in the pit of his stomach and then seeping throughout his entire body, which was strange, but he certainly was not hindered. If anything, he got his work as a web designer done for the day incredibly early and got to goof off. Now that he thought about it, neither the taste nor the smell had really been enough to deter him either. He had not even really wanted to think about the smell in the moment, but there had most definitely been a pungent odor. It was one of those scents that would stick to everything forever, like when someone died, and it made him wonder how exactly Arthur had gotten by without having it in every nook and cranny of the house. Regardless, both it and the taste were completely new levels of bad, but they would not kill him. He had never been much of a lightweight, but Arthur's cooking might have gotten to him in the days before studying abroad, which had changed him—to grading things' tolerability on whether it could kill him or not. He was not sure whether he should be grateful or not for all the things he had been through there. Oh great, he was starting to have flashbacks again.

Memories of trauma or not, Francis had been able to give him one piece of comforting news at least: the tea was safe. Neither of them knew exactly how, but they assumed it had to do with the fact that he never touched the tea leaves directly, merely with utensils, until he drank it. Regardless, the tea at least had never poisoned anyone. After watching Arthur cook merely one time Francis had hired a private investigator to confirm it before he drank a cup himself. That said, he still did not consume anything related to Arthur when he could avoid it on the off chance. Alfred figured that he might as well take up that policy. Even if that one bite had not done the damage it had done to others the last thing he wanted to do was pile on the toxins. He doubted his system could get rid of them quick enough to save himself. Whether or not he was ordinary or extraordinary, he certainly was not stupid. Far from it actually. In the wake of everything that had happened, he more or less had two options: he could quit and suffer from whatever tantrum Matthew would throw or he could show up the next day at Arthur's home and begin that life as a high stakes gambler that he had been thinking about. As smart as he was, no matter what scenario he could imagine he would rather face the grim reaper and his purple cooking than Matthew throwing a tantrum. You could call him a glutton for punishment or say that his priorities were skewed, he supposed, but until you were the overachieving, younger twin brother of one Matthew Williams you cannot really judge.

Of course, it was already said that he was not stupid: he had a plan. A very basic one, but a plan nonetheless. That was if he could even get in the front door, though. Chances were that he would need two plans, one to deal with the cooking and the other to deal with Arthur himself. The former he was perfectly fine with at the moment, but the latter—well, he was not so sure so sure his golden tongue could smooth everything over this round, not without injury at least. He expected said injury would be being "treated" to a "meal" and having to power through it to gain forgiveness. The only problem with that is that he had resolved not to ingest anymore toxins until he had observed the affects it was already having on his body. And the one thing he was probably above all else was stubborn. That was simply not an option.

With all of that fresh in his mind, he arrived at Arthur's home the next day, early no less. Earlier than the day before at least. He may not have had to stay here all day every day, but he did have to prepare three meals and possibly a snack per day. That had been the main part of his job anyway, feeding his employer edible things so he would not eat inedible things. Francis would have been more than fine if he abandoned the teaching guise altogether so long as Arthur was kept away from their customers, but that was Francis's problem because Alfred had enough of his own. Such as his reluctance to knock on the door, even worse than the first day. Maybe if he was lucky enough he would catch Arthur off guard and not have to deal with a knife at his throat first thing in the morning. He was expecting his appearance at any time during a twenty four hour span, after all, even if common sense dictated that the earlier the better for this kind of thing. Well, common sense had also dictated that he should not have taken a bite of the "scone," but he did that, too. He could swing it. He only allowed himself the time it took to deliver three sharp knocks to the wooden door before jumping back to a more comfortable distance. He had been serious about the knife.

He did not even have a moment to spare as he heard shuffling and muttering something reminiscent of, "The b-bloody—He came back!"

Well that was reassuring.

"Yes, Arthur. I came back." Alfred confirmed without being able to suppress the following sigh, "I made a promise with Francis and I intend to keep it. He is really worried about you, you know? Now let me in."

Arthur took his sweet time, but he did indeed open the door, wearing a skeptical look the entire time. It was even tinged with a bit of shock, but nothing like the day before. He was so entranced with whatever thoughts that made him make such a face that he just stood in the doorway blocking Alfred's path. Alfred had half the mind to let him.

"Y-you…"

Alfred's ears perked. It was the same hesitance from the day before even if his look stayed the same.

"You are not… S-sick, are you?"

As soon as the words left Arthur's lips a blush devoured his face and eye contact was no longer possible. It was most definitely the same as before. And it cracked Alfred up. He had to do everything he could possibly think of to swallow down his rising laughter. This was just too much! Arthur may have been in denial, but thank goodness he was not stupid. Apparently even he realized that Alfred should have either been in the hospital or the grave one after his rite of passage yesterday and it gave him as much hope as it did despair. On one hand, he deep down realized that he had a problem. On the other, he was either too delusional or cared too little about others' lives to deal with that problem. Oh, the irony of his present meekness. He was a biohazard waiting to happen and Alfred was on the front line. The more he thought about it the harder it became to hold in the crippling laughter.

"N-no, Arthur. I am perfectly healthy, despite all odds." Alfred assured as smoothly as possible, flashing a cheeky but genuine grin, "But that little stunt of mine yesterday is a secret between you and me. Who knows what Francis would do if he thought I had immunity."

He had a point, Arthur knew, but Alfred had ignored one thing: what was Arthur supposed to do if he thought the man had immunity? That had been an ability solely his own for the longest time. Just seeing Alfred take a bite yesterday had floored him beyond belief. Most people would not get anywhere near his food, claiming that something was "off" about it. He had tried his hardest to figure out what exactly that was. Sometimes the color did not match his reference pictures and sometimes it would burn a little. Those were the most common things, yet he had been assured on several occasions that if that had been all it would not have been nearly so bad. To this day people could not explain what so wrong with the appearance of his culinary art and even fewer could remember enough to tell him what was so wrong with the taste. Yet here was a man, not only a survivor, but in perfect health when he was a taste tester just yesterday. If anyone could explain it to him it would him. He was so desperate for that knowledge that he would even be willing to forgive his obvious insults at his cooking capability. Even if he was doing something wrong, as long as he fixed it he could very well be the best chef the world had ever seen.

"Alfred." Arthur began, all former meekness fading away into a stern seriousness, "A promise you made with that frog is no concern of mine, but I will admit that I may have been too quick to dismiss you yesterday. I am not blind. I realize that I have to be doing something wrong, but no matter how many people watch me or taste my cooking no one can tell me what that is. If that is not a need to get more people to try it than I do not know what is because without that I can never fix it. You are bound to know yourself that discoloration and smoke do not necessarily mean the food is bad, so why is it? I memorized techniques, recipes, and ingredient properties alike. I _know _how to cook. So I do not need you to be a teacher as Francis insists, but if you can stomach what I make you may very well be the only person that can tell me what I am doing wrong. Because of that I will be willing to forgive and forget any transgressions from yesterday in favor of our partnership. You said we would work through this and I am willing to see it through. Are you?"

Alfred had not expected him to be nearly so blunt about it. The determination burning in Arthur's emerald eyes only served to bolster his surprise. Maybe this man was a little more reasonable than everyone gave him credit for, Alfred included. He could not exactly argue with needing more people for his deadly survey, but a line had to be drawn somewhere. Alfred supposed that was his job now. No more innocent people would suffer on his watch. Still, that did not mean he was confident he could help Arthur. For one, yesterday he had been convinced of the supernatural at first and he was still hanging on to the alien theory with every fiber of his being. What Arthur was "doing wrong" may not have so much to do with what he was actually doing and have more to do with Arthur himself. Alfred was not so sure he was ready to accept that, which was probably the source of the denial in the first place. In light of that, there was probably only one thing Alfred could do for Arthur, and that was to be his stubborn old skeptic self that would come up with any plan possible to find a scientific explanation. He could do that.

"Of course, Arthur!" Alfred cheered, "But I do have one condition."

A mischievous smile broke across his lips as Arthur went rigid, "Name it."

"You shall forever be 'Artie' instead of 'Arthur.' It gets to be quite a mouthful." Alfred chuckled, not noticing a certain someone's blush returning, "Now let me in already if you agree. I really am going to end up sick if you keep me out here."

If nothing else, Alfred did not get sick that day.


End file.
